


Little, Less, Nothing

by lotsandnoneatall



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Original Character(s), Post - Deathly Hallows, Potterlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-17
Updated: 2014-01-15
Packaged: 2017-12-15 06:20:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,234
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/846288
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lotsandnoneatall/pseuds/lotsandnoneatall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John Watson and Sherlock Holmes start their first year at Hogwarts. Set in the post-Deathly Hallows time, Harry Potter's children are also in school (as well as the other Weasleys, etc.). Though it's been many years since the Battle of Hogwarts, new dark forces begin to appear at Hogwarts as well as outside the school grounds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Getting Sorted

**Author's Note:**

> "They listened to his heart.  
> Little - less - nothing! - and that ended it.  
> No more to build on there. And they, since they  
> Were not the one dead, turned to their affairs." 
> 
> -Robert Frost

There were only three students left.

            “Waston, John!”

John Watson gulped and trudged up to the Sorting Hat. The hat blocked his view of the rest of the Great Hall, and suddenly a voice spoke to him.

            “ _Hmmm. You’ve certainly got courage and heart. Certainly_ ,” the Sorting Hat said to him. It paused. “ _You’re also quite loyal and self-preserving…”_ John’s heart dropped. He had a feeling the hat was considering placing him Slytherin. On the boat ride over to the Great Hall, John had tried to convince himself that he was above the house stereotypes, but now he wasn’t so sure…

            “ _Well then. It has to be_ GRYFFINDOR!”

The last word was said aloud. John sighed and smiled with relief as he stumbled to the boisterous Gryffindor table. He sat next to the boy he had shared a compartment with on the Hogwarts Express—Albus Potter.

            “Whew, glad that’s over.” Albus clapped John on the back.

            John nodded. “I’m starving.”

In a few moments, the remaining two students were sorted. Headmistress McGonagall stood up to say a few words.

            “Welcome students, returning and new,” she smiled. “I know you must all be hungry, so I’ll discuss pressing issues after tonight’s meal. Until then, dig in!”

            The room was filled with amorous clatter as the famished students began to eat from the suddenly numerous plates of food before them.

            “Have some treacle tart for dessert for me, will you?” a voice said to John.

            John nervously nodded at the pearly white ghost sitting beside him.

            “It was my favorite,” the ghost said sadly.

            “Are you Sir Nicholas?” Albus asked.

            “I am,” Sir Nicholas seemed a bit less melancholic at being recognized. “And who are you two?”

            “I’m Albus Potter. But you can call me Al. And this is John Watson.”

            “Nice to meet you both. Tell your father I say hello, Al. And please thank him again for the lovely Death Day gift he sent me.”

            Sir Nicholas glided away to mingle with more first-years.

            “What did he get him?”

            Al wrinkled his nose. “Dad recovered the blunt axe he was beheaded with. Well, _nearly_ beheaded.”

 

 McGonagall’s speech and the first-years’ trek to their dormitories was a bit of a blur as a blissful food coma set in. John muttered a goodnight to the other boys in his room before falling instantly asleep.

            The next day proved to be a sharp contrast. Everyone was bustling around to a myriad of different classes, and John found it hard to keep up. His classes were very interesting (save for Professor Binn’s), but with all the switching staircases, long corridors, and moving portraits, the end of the day was quite a relief.

            “I’m looking forward to Trelawney’s class, but that’s not until our third year,” Al was saying. “I mean, I know people say that kind of stuff is just a load of rubbish, but I still want to learn about it.” He seemed a little embarrassed. “My mum and dad were talking about her class this summer, how is was mostly dull and phony. But my dad stands by her, says she’s the real deal.”

            John nodded. “I think I’ll like Potions and Herbology most. And Defense Against the Dark Arts, of course.”

            “Yeah, I really want to know what my Patronus is.”

            “I don’t know, but it can’t be worse than the monstrosity you produced in Transfiguration today. What’d your match turn into? A silver worm?”

            Al laughed, his face red. “Shut up! At least Hugo and Jack weren’t shooting spitballs at me when I fell asleep in Binn’s class.”

 

“Oh god.”

            Professor Slughorn had spotted Al and positively lit up. “Is that another Potter I see? I expect great things, great things…” Slughorn’s eyes fell on another student. “And a Holmes? A lineage of great minds…”

            The class was starting with a simple potion—cure for boils—and they were to pair up.

            “Hey Al—wanna be partners?” Demetria Dale called from across the room.

            Al looked at John. “Do you mind?” John smiled and shook his head.

But John didn’t know whom else to pair up with. He turned around the room until he saw one other partner-less person—Sherlock Holmes. He was already getting out his supplies.

            “I suppose we’re partners,” John said with a friendly smile. “John Watson.”

            “Paris or Nice?”

            “Excuse me?”

            “You recently went on a holiday.”

            “Well, yes, but—"

             “Was it in Paris or Nice?”

            “Nice. How did you know?”

            Sherlock Holmes smirked. “You have tan lines on your wrist and recent weather in Britain would suggest you were out of the country. Based on the state of your robes and books you are reasonably well off, but not enough to vacation far away. This would indicate you traveled to a nearby location, such as France or Spain. You were probably visiting relatives, which clearly rules out Spain. Though you were visiting relatives, Paris and Nice are the most popular cities for tourists, so obviously that’s where you would be.”

            John raised his eyebrows. “Obviously.”

            Finally, the dark-haired boy extended his hand. “Sherlock Holmes.”

They shook hands, and began to work.

           


	2. Dead Frogs

“That was brilliant, you know.”

            “Hardly.”

“No, I mean what you did at the beginning of class—how you worked out exactly where I went on holiday. Brilliant.”

            Sherlock seemed surprised. “Oh, er—thank you. It was simply deduction.”

“So, Slughorn knew you. Is all your family in Slytherin?”

            “Yes. My twat of a brother is currently a prefect. Mycroft Holmes.”

“Oh. My family is primarily—“

            “Hey John! Come here!”

Al’s shouts cut the conversation off. “Sorry, Sherlock. See you later?”

            “Mmm.”

 

“Man, I can’t wait ‘til next year for Quidditch. D’you think you’ll try out?”

            Al shrugged. “I don’t know, it’s not really my thing. I’ll come watch you, though. What position do you play?”

            “Keeper.” John closed his book. “Have you ever spoken to Sherlock Holmes?”

            Al looked up from his own book. “Isn’t he in Slytherin? No, I don’t think so. Why?”

            John shrugged. “I was partners with him the other day in Potions. Really smart, a bit… _different_ , though.” He stood up. “Well, I’m going to return this to the library. You gonna stay here?”

            “Yeah. See you later.”

 

“Oh, for God’s sake.”

            John stopped mid-step and listened. More noise came from behind a nearby door—this time a muffled clatter, like something had fallen over.

            The door led to the abandoned girls’ bathroom. John wondered if Moaning Myrtle was having another infamous tantrum. He decided not to stick around to find out.

            But the door swung violently open, and out stepped a frustrated-looking Sherlock Holmes. He spotted John.

            “How good are you with a knife?”

            John sputtered. “What? I, uh—I dunno, average?”

 

“What happened in here?” Inside the bathroom, a cauldron was lying on its side, with pale yellow liquid spilling out of it. Bunches of papers were strewn everywhere, and dead frogs were randomly sprawled on the floor. It smelt vaguely of incense and a bit of cabbage.

            “The ghost who resides in this lavatory, best-known as Moaning Myrtle, did not take kindly to a few deductions I made.”

            John snorted. “You should have known better. D’you know she once flooded the bathroom just because some poor girl accidentally walked through her?”

            Sherlock seemed not to listen. “Pick those up,” Sherlock instructed, apparently satisfied and now pointing at the frogs. “Be delicate; they’re still part of an experiment.”

            John found he wasn’t very disgusted with the dead amphibians. “What’s your experiment?” he asked Sherlock as he began collecting the frogs.

            “I am analyzing the differences in decomposition between magical deaths and non-magical deaths.” Sherlock was rummaging through a black case John hadn’t noticed before.

            “And… where exactly did you find all these dead frogs?”

            Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Don’t worry,” his tone was mocking. “I don’t find joy in torturing animals. I simply nicked the non-magical specimen from a biology classroom in a nearby school back at home. The rest I purchased at Slug and Jiggers Apothecary in Diagon Alley.”

            “You packed a bunch of dead frogs and brought them to _school_?”

            “Well, I couldn’t have done it at home, could I?” Sherlock said, annoyed. “No magic allowed outside school,” he explained, clearly thinking it was a ridiculous law.

            “Why’d you ask about my knife skills?”

            “For this,” Sherlock said, handing a small silver scalpel and a pair of scissors to John. “Take three of each frog and set them aside. The non-magical frogs have a yellow tag on their legs, and the magical frogs are plain. Cut a vertical line on each of those frogs’ stomachs, and then make smaller cuts at the top to create a Y-shape. Then, remove the hearts. Be careful not to cut any of the other organs.”

            “Um,” John said.

            “I’ll be right back,” Sherlock said, heading for the door. “Thanks to Myrtle, I’ll be needing more supplies for that potion.” He gestured, obviously irritated, to his leaking cauldron. The door banged shut behind him.

            John sat on the ground near the frogs for a few moments, and then decided to listen to Sherlock’s instructions. Just as he leaned over his first frog with the scissors, Moaning Myrtle’s head popped up out of her favorite toilet.

            “Oh!” she gasped, her nose wrinkled up in repulsion, “How disgusting!”


	3. Tread Carefully

            It was Saturday. John and Sherlock were eating sandwiches near the Black Lake, watching the giant squid stretch its enormous tentacles in the dim sunlight.   John held out his left hand. Indeed, his palm and fingers were puffy and stiff looking, and his skin was taut with a purplish tint.

            “I don’t know why, but hand’s been hurting a lot lately. And this morning, when I woke up, it was all swollen.”

            “Oh,” Sherlock said quietly.

            John looked at Sherlock. “What?”

            “Well—“

            “Bloody Hell, Sherlock don’t tell me I’m part of one of your experiments.”

            Sherlock didn’t reply.

            . “Right, well I’m going to Madam Pomfrey,” John huffed, annoyed, and put on his sweatshirt. “See you later.”

 

It turned out it was just a bit of Swelling Solution. John wondered what Sherlock’s experiment was as Madam Pomfrey looked for her bottle of Deflating Draught.

            “There you are, dear,” Madam Pomfey said as John’s hand slowly turned to its normal state. “And be careful with your Potions next time.”

            “Thanks. I will.” John stood up to leave.

 

Sherlock was waiting outside the hospital wing. John let him explain.

            “I wanted see the effects of Swelling Solution when treated with an alternative to Deflating Draught. I thought it would have worked.”

            “Yes, well, clearly it didn’t.”

            “It was harmless.”

            John sighed. “How about a game of chess?”

 

It was snowing heavily, but the cheery fire blazing in Gryffindor common room allowed John, Al, and Demetria to sit comfortably in the cushiony armchairs.

            “You guys gonna go home for the holidays?” John asked.

            “Yeah, my parents want to take me to America to visit my cousins,” Demetria said.

            “I’ll probably end up spending it at the Burrow with the family,” Al said. John had forgotten—Al had a pretty big extended family who all got together sometimes at his grandmother’s house, like during the summer.

            John nodded. He knew both he and his sister were both staying. A Hogwarts feast sounded much more inviting then a stiff dinner with his parents.

            “Are you staying?” Al asked.

            John nodded.

            “Why don’t come stay with me and my brother James?”

            John reddened. “Oh no, that’s alright.”

            “Are you sure? It’ll be fun. There’s lots of space to play Quidditch.”

            “I don’t know...”

            “It’s fine.” Al began to rummage in his bag for parchment and a quill. “I’ll write my mum right now to let her know.”

 

“I can’t wait to go to Hogsmeade.” John was longingly looking out of the window of the library as students, year three and up, were walking towards the small wizarding village.

            Sherlock ignored him. He was scrutinizing a page in _Moste Potente Potions_.

            “Wait a minute. How’d you get that book? I thought it was in the Restricted Section.”

            Sherlock continued to ignore John. “Never mind,” John said. He didn’t really want to know, he supposed. “Are you staying for Christmas?”

            “Mmm,” Sherlock said absently. But he stood up suddenly and slammed the book closed. (Madam Pince narrowed her eyes suspiciously at Sherlock’s treatment of her precious books.) Sherlock dramatically put on his blue scarf and strutted out of the library.

            “Um, bye,” John called after him.

            “Shh!” Madam Pince stared daggers at John.

            Well, John thought, might as well leave. He wasn’t planning on studying.

            “Hey!” someone whispered at him. John turned around. It was Sally Donovan, a Ravenclaw.

            “What?” John asked.

            “How can you stand him?”

            John was slightly taken aback. “Well, I dunno—“

            “He’s such a freak. The way he knows everything about everyone, just by _looking_. And I heard that he stole a bunch of stuff from a morgue last summer. You know, that Muggle place where they store _dead bodies_.”

            “Oh,” John said awkwardly. “Well, I have to go…”

            “I’d be careful if I were you,” Sally said histrionically, as John turned to leave. “I wouldn’t be surprised if he ever became the cause of some of those dead bodies. He is a Slytherin, after all.”

 

“I told you not to eat it,” Al laughed at John, who had taken a bite of Hagrid’s treacle fudge whilst visiting. It cemented his teeth together.

            “Hagrid’s cool, I can’t wait to have Care for Magical Creatures,” Al continued. “I wonder if he’ll have hippogriffs, my dad said that’s what his first lesson was with Hagrid.”

            It wasn’t until Hagrid’s hut was out of sight that John finally wrenched mouth free, also when Sherlock almost ran into him.

            “Oh, Sherlock, great—I wanted to say bye before I left, but I didn’t know where you’d be.”

            Sherlock, who had obviously been in the middle of something, stopped and narrowed his eyes. “Where are you going?”

            “Oh, Al’s gonna have Harry and me over for Christmas.”

            Sherlock didn’t say anything.

            “Well, I should go make sure I’m packed. Goodbye, Sherlock, have a nice holiday.”


	4. Christmas

John felt like he gained at least five pounds over the holidays. The Potters, Scamanders, and Weasleys were all gathered at the Burrow for Christmas, but Al’s grandmother always had an abundance of nourishment, including the best mince pies, Yorkshire pudding, and roasted sausages John had ever eaten.

            At first John had been nervous about spending the holidays at the Burrow, but the family was so welcoming he instantly felt comfortable at the crowded and crooked home. Al watched as John played Quidditch with James, Lily, and other relatives. Even John’s sister, Harry appeared to be come close friends with Al’s half-French cousin, Clara.

            The week before Christmas Day, John and Al decided to visit Diagon Alley, and more specifically, Weasleys’ Wizard Wheezes, Al’s uncle’s joke shop.  It was amazing—full of cheery holiday shoppers, the store buzzed with devices like the aviatomobile and screaming yo-yos. A toddler laughed delightedly as his father fell victim to a boxing telescope. John ended up buying a Self-Writing Quill for Clara and George even gave him a complimentary Extendable Ear (“Came in very handy when I was your age,” George winked.).

            John also purchased some very nice flasks for Sherlock at the apothecary, and Al bought some chocolate for Demetria at Sugarplum’s Sweet Shop. They then went to Florean Fortescue's Ice Cream Parlour where consumed very large scoops of pistachio ice cream, and, feeling satisfied, finally returned to the Burrow.

 

On Christmas Day, John woke to the smell of bacon and to the sound of young children laughing gleefully.

            “Happy Christmas!” Al greeted him enthusiastically.

            “Happy Christmas!” John said back, tossing him a gift. He had gotten him _Broken Balls: When Fortunes Turn Foul_. Al grinned in appreciation and gave John his present. It was a broom-cleaning kit.

            They joined the others downstairs by the fire, where everyone was exchanging more presents and piling mounds of food on plates. John had already put on his handmade sweater from Al’s grandma (navy blue with a big yellow snitch on the front) when he found a crisp green box with a letter on top. His name was in Sherlock Holmes’s slanted scribble.

 

_John—_

_Hope your having a nice holiday. Most Slytherins went elsewhere for Christmas, so the common room is rather quiet. It’s nice—I can think and play violin without annoying disruptions. Anyway, I hope you like your present. I was forced to ask Mycroft to get it for you at Hogsmeade._

_Happy Christmas,_

_SH_

John smirked when he finished reading. He carefully lifted the lid off the box: a brand new copy of _The Helper’s Helpmate_ by H. Pollingtonious was inside. John smiled. How did Sherlock know he was interested in becoming a Healer? He would have to ask when he got back to Hogwarts.

 

Christmas break seemed to zoom by, and John could hardly believe he was already starting the second half of his first year at Hogwarts. They only had one day off before classes started again, and he resolved to spend it by lounging by common room fire.

            There was a tapping on the window near where John was sitting in his favorite armchair. It was an owl, carrying a scrap of paper addressed to John.

 

_Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. Come if convenient._

_If inconvenient, come anyway._

_-SH_

 

John considered staying by the nice warm fire, like he planned. But he stood up, shoved the note in his pocket, and dodged around fellow Gryffindors playing Exploding Snap as he made his way to the abandoned bathroom.


	5. Bonding

Some would call that day John came back from break fate, but as Sherlock once said, “coincidences do not exist.” Nonetheless, the two were inseparable after John ventured into the out-of-order girl’s toilet. There are some things you can’t share without ending up liking each other, and solving the murder of Mrs. Norris was one of them.

 

            At first John was angry. He even vaguely suspected Sherlock might have killed the cat, maybe not on purpose, but all the same…

            “Sherlock—“ he sputtered as his eyes fell on the stiff animal. “What the—what did you _do_?”

            Sherlock raised his eyebrow. “What did I do? Nothing. I found Mrs. Norris in here.”

            John felt a little relieved to know Sherlock didn’t have anything to do with the killing, but his tone was still slightly chiding. “Why haven’t you gone to get a teacher? If Filch finds us—“

            “We have about ten minutes before Mr. Filch will think to come to the bathroom,” Sherlock interrupted. “I want to examine Mrs. Norris before someone tampers with her. Besides, I’ll only need five minutes.”

            John gazed at Sherlock, and then back at the cat, processing the situation. “Alright,” he said finally. “But why d’you need me?”

            Sherlock looked at John, his blue-green eyes wide. “I thought you’d know more medical information than me. Anyway, a second pair of eyes is always helpful.”

            John nodded. “After you,” Sherlock said, gesturing to the body.

            John crouched next to Mrs. Norris. He sniffed her carefully—clearly not dead long, but there was the subtle scent of blood. She seemed almost normal, except that she was extremely thin and had an expression of irritation mixed with fear fixed on her still face. But John noticed some hair was sticking up at funny angles along the backbone. He looked up at Sherlock, who nodded, before turning the cat over.

            Untamed hair was the least of Mrs. Norris’s problems as the other side of her body was revealed. There were huge gashes in straight lines all over her side and stomach, though, curiously, the organs were not spilling out. 

            “Here.” John looked up as Sherlock handed him silver utensils. “Thanks,” John said as he began to gingerly pry open one of Mrs. Norris’s wounds with the slim instruments.

            “What do you see?” Sherlock asked.

            John frowned. “Well, this wasn’t an accident. It seems that whoever did this to her removed some of her organs… and they cleaned up the blood that would have clearly been spilt because of the depth and repetitions of these deep cuts. These wounds were not made by magic—you can see the unevenness of the cuts; this zigzag is from the jagged edge of a knife… Since the cuts were made from right to left, the killer was left-handed.”

            “What else?” Sherlock asked as John handed back the utensils and stood up.

            John’s brow furrowed. He continued look down at Mrs. Norris’s body. “Well, maybe they didn’t mean to kill her—they did clean up and hide her in this bathroom; everyone knows that no one ever comes in here. It’s not like Myrtle would be keen to report it… Where _is_ Myrtle? Probably hiding in the u-bend, I suppose…”

            John looked at Sherlock. “What do you think?”

            “I agree that whoever killed Mrs. Norris cleaned up, but her death was not an accident. You notice that some of her organs are missing? Her heart, her stomach, and her lower intestine, to be more precise—all of which, I have read, are crucial ingredients in some complex potions. No potion, however, we would brew at Hogwarts in class. The killer merely made the incisions that were necessary, removed the needed organs, and then made sure to kill the cat—that way it couldn’t lead back to the killer when someone, most likely Filch, found the maimed cat. The killer placed her in here, where nobody is expected to come. Though, of course, someone would eventually think to look here, it is unlikely they would be able to trace it back to the killer since the cat cannot aid the investigation and since her body was cleaned so thoroughly. However, we do know some things about the killer.”

            Sherlock smirked at the disbelief on John’s face, and continued. “Like you said, the killer is left-handed. But the killer used a knife—it is only logical that the killer is Muggle-born, since there impulse was not to use their wand. Not only that, they went further--Mrs. Norris was washed by hand, with a towel of some sort. That’s why her hair is sticking up at odd angles. But even Muggle-borns would realize how tedious that would be, when you could just use a simple Drying Charm after dousing the body with water. So—the killer must be a first-year, since we haven’t yet learned those simple, yet useful, spells that could have aided our killer. There are only three Muggle-borns this year. We just have to tell Headmistress McGonagall, and they’ll each be searched. And then we have our killer.”

            John still had an incredulous look on his face, his mouth slightly agape. “Amazing,” he said. “Absolutely incredible. You deduced all that, just now?”

            Sherlock blushed. John looked at his watch. “You were wrong, though.” Sherlock eyed him, confused. “That took six minutes.”

            They grinned at each other just as a splashing sound made them turn around. Moaning Myrtle was peaking up out of her favorite toilet, and was staring, horrified, at the dead, mutilated cat. Her eyes then fell on the two boys. “You!” she squealed. “What did you do?”

            “Right then,” John said hastily. “Let’s go get McGonagall.”


	6. Who Killed the Cat

“Ow!” John’s nose slammed into an open book as head slipped off his arm. His head still slow from sleep and the throbbing pain in his nose, John fumbled with various objects to find his watch. “Shit!” He was five minutes late to Tranfiguration.

            At least he got some sleep. There had been many late nights since he and Sherlock solved the murder of Mrs. Norris.

            Professor McGonagall was having tea in her office with Hagrid when Sherlock and John burst in (it had taken Sherlock four seconds to deduce the password was _Caithness_ ). Both professors were very taken aback, but listened to the boys findings and logical conclusions.

            “Very well,” McGonagall said simply after they had finished. “Hagrid, please go and retrieve Mrs. Norris. And please fetch Mr. Filch. I daresay he may have found the body already.”

            Then McGonagall turned again to John and Sherlock with narrowed but not unkind eyes. “I’m trusting you on this,” she said. “Muffy—Beod—Bitty.” Three house elves suddenly apparated in front of the fireplace. They bowed until their noses touched the floor.

            “I’m sorry to disturb you on the last day before term begins,” McGonagall said hastily. “But I need each of you to fetch three children. Muffy—Jacob Masonry of Hufflepuff. Beod—William Frank, also Hufflepuff. And Bitty—Olivia Johnson of Ravenclaw. Thank you.”      

            “Yes, ma’am,” the three elves disapparated.

            Hagrid, carrying the deceased cat gingerly in his arms, followed Filch into the room almost immediately after. Filch was extremely white, and tears were constantly flowing from his beady eyes.

            His voice was quiet when he spoke, but he shook with rage. “I want. Some. _Punishment_.”

            McGonagall frowned in sympathy and nodded. “Of course, Argus. We are working capturing the culprit as we speak—“

            McGonagall was cut off when three wide-eyed first-years were pushed into the room by the house elves. Filch looked as if he were about to burst.

            “Why don’t you and Hagrid wait outside, Argus,” McGonagall said quickly.

            Hagrid practically dragged Filch out, but not before he glowered angrily at the shaking first-years.

            “Little cretins,” he seethed, spitting a little. “Hang you all up by your ankles in the dungeons, that’s what I’ll do…give you no food, see how long until the murderer confesses…then we’ll see how much you like playing with knives—“

            It wasn’t too soon that Hagrid managed to shove Filch out and slam the door.

            “Well, I’m sorry about that,” McGonagall said with a sigh. “But you three are here because it is believed a first-year, Muggle-born student has harmed Mr. Filch’s cat, Mrs. Norris.” Each student looked equally nervous and scared. John watched Sherlock narrow his eyes in observation. McGonagall then turned to the house elves. “Please return to your student’s dormitory and search their belongings. Report anything suspicious back to me.” The house elves nodded and disapparated.

            “You won’t find anything,” Sherlock said.

            “I’m sorry?” McGonagall raised an eyebrow.

            “The culprit will have already gotten rid of the evidence. Or, at least have hidden it well. We found Mrs. Norris in the abandoned girl’s bathroom, but although it was abandoned, whoever killed Mrs. Norris was clever enough to know leaving the corpse in there was a bad idea. It was temporary; a momentary place to hide the cat while they cleaned up or decided exactly what to do. Either way, the killer went back while John and I were here. They must have hurried back to their dormitory after they saw the body was gone or after they saw Filch and Hagrid entering the bathroom. I would say the former.”

            “And why’s that?” McGonagall asked.

            “It’s Moaning Myrtle’s bathroom. She floods it when she’s upset. I would think seeing a maimed cat in her home is more than enough to set someone that melodramatic off on a tantrum.”

            “So the killer’s shoes would be wet,” John said, finally understanding.

            Everyone looked at the three student’s feet.

            “Um,” John said.

            No one’s shoes were wet.

            Sherlock waved his had, however. “No matter. We know enough about our killer to find his or her identity. The killer will have ink marks on the left hand, an aptitude for potions, and long black hair.” Sherlock looked smug as a sense of finality clouded the room.

            Everyone was now staring at Olivia Johnson, the only Ravenclaw in the room. She stood quite still for a few seconds before collapsing in one of the armchairs opposite McGonagall’s desk. She began sobbing into her hands; on the left hand was a black smudge.

            “Alright, yes, I did it,” she said shakily.

            “Very well,” McGonagall was curt but she looked concerned. “I’m afraid Hogwarts does not have tolerance for that sort of behavior. After we’ve finished questioning you, you are to go straight to your dormitory, pack your things, and take the train back to your home tomorrow.”

            Olivia didn’t object, but continued to cry.

            McGonagall turned to William and Jacob, who seemed confused and still anxious, if not a little relieved to find they were not in trouble. “I’m sorry, boys, you may go.”

            They turned to leave, and John looked at Sherlock. “Well, I guess we should go too?”

            Sherlock ignored him. “Did you change your shoes?”

            Olivia looked up at him, her face tear-streaked. “What? Oh, no. It’s like you said, I saw Hagrid and Filch…”

            “Mmm,” Sherlock said, already beginning to become bored. “And someone provoked you, I take it? Perhaps someone made a reference to your Muggle ancestry at some point—“

            “Celine Parkinson,” Olivia said, her tone bitter. “She was always making fun of my braces, and talking about my parents…Then one day Professor Slughorn praised the potion we were brewing that day, and she told me there was no way a filthy mudblood like me could have made my draft without cheating…Well, I was well on my way to brewing a potion she’d never forget—“

            “So you went to all that trouble to try and make an extremely advanced potion—and one from the Dark Arts, no less—and you didn’t even bother to learn a simple Drying Spell?” John asked.

            Olivia’s cheeks flushed. “I’m better at Potions than I am at Charms,” she muttered. Sherlock was silently laughing.

            Finally, McGonagall made them leave as completed the questioning.

            “Amazing,” John told Sherlock.

            “What? You keep saying that.”

            “Oh, sorry, I’ll shut up.”

            “No, it’s… fine.”

            “Well, what do people normally say when they watch you deduce?”

            “Piss off.”

            It was well past midnight when John was back in his warm bed in Gryffindor tower. It was an interesting day, but he was looking forward to sleep.

            _Right,_ he thought to himself. _This has got to be my last late night._

            But of course it was just the first late night out of many to come. Most of the school had heard about Olivia Johnson, and how the two little first-years, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, solved her crime. Curiously, other students had begun asking for their help as a result.

            Now it was Rupert Samson’s turn. He came to John and Sherlock, explaining that each night since he’s gotten back from Christmas break, some sort of archaic rune appears on one of the curtains of his four-poster bed. John referred to it as the case of “The Shimmering Sheet”, much to Sherlock’s annoyance.

            They had started researching information last night. They spent hours in the library looking up ancient runes and spells that responded to moonlight. Apparently, John had fallen asleep and Sherlock didn’t think to wake him ( _or at least set an alarm_ , John thought bitterly).

            John attempted to gather all his Tranfiguration supplies and jogged to class, hoping Filch wouldn’t catch him and give detention for running in the hallways. When he got to class, he apologized profusely to Professor McGonagall, who merely pursed her lips and took five points from Gryffindor.

            Out of breath, John slumped down in a seat next to Al.

            “What happened to you?” Al murmured, amused.

            “Sherlock-bloody-Holmes,” John whispered, but he gave a small smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -I chose "Caithness" as Professor McGonagall's password because it was where she grew up and this chapter takes place a little after Christmas


End file.
